


Wrong-Shaped Corners

by dance_across



Series: Corners, Edges, Monsters, Myths [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Closure, Established Relationship, F/M, Fighting for Dominance, M/M, POV First Person, POV Ray Kowalski, Post-Call of the Wild, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:56:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5872987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victoria finds Fraser again, and stirs up a storm of long-buried feelings. But this time, Ray's there to help him through it—no matter what it takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong-Shaped Corners

**Author's Note:**

> I really feel like I should apologize for this. Not sure if that's because this is a combination of people who should never ever actually sleep together, or because I secretly dream of being Canadian. So, uh, sorry? But not actually sorry?
> 
> (Thanks so much to DesireeArmfeldt, whose insightful comments turned the ending of this fic into a _far_ better version of itself!)

The eyes are how I can tell it’s a woman under there. Well, the eyes first, and then the voice, talking at me from under a thick layer of scarf: “Can I come in?”

Down in Chicago, asking that first would be weird. Suspicious, even. But up here, especially in winter and especially with this storm brewing like it is, that’s always the first thing you ask, if you bother asking at all. Priorities are different up here, is what I’m saying.

I step aside and in she comes, pushing the door shut behind her—which finally makes it quiet enough that I can hear her heavy breaths below that scarf and that parka and all the layers she’s probably (hopefully) wearing underneath. Makes me sympathetic, that kind of breathing. Makes me remember when I first moved up here, before I got used to going outside in weather like this.

Well, before I got _more_ used to it, anyway.

She breathes like that for a few seconds, then pulls her scarf down so it’s not covering her mouth anymore. “Thanks,” she says, still kinda panting. “It’s not pleasant out there.”

Her face, now that I can see it, looks a little familiar. Strong cheekbones and chin, dark eyes, sharp nose. Pretty, I guess, but I can’t think where I’ve seen her before. Probably just around town. You live here long enough, you see everyone eventually.

“No,” I say. “Not pleasant, for sure.”

She glances back at the door, grimacing. “Yeah, listen, I really thought I’d be able to make it home tonight, but it’s not looking good. You wouldn’t happen to have a couch I can stay on, would you?”

Again, this’d be a totally strange question back down in the States—but up here, not so much.

“I can do you one better,” I tell her. “We got a guest room.”

A smile spreads across her face, and yeah, she’s definitely pretty. Maybe even hot. Which means that when she goes, “Oh, you are amazing,” I basically feel like a god. Because sure, I’m practically married, but I’m not _dead_.

“Name’s Ray,” I say, sticking out my hand.

Her eyes get kind of sparkly, and she pulls off her mitten, then the thinner glove underneath. “Leigh. Pleased to meet you, Ray.”

“Take off those boots and the coat in here,” I say, gesturing to the mudroom where she’s standing. “You can stick your pack anywhere. I’ll put the kettle on.”

 _Put the kettle on._ Yeah, apparently I say shit like that now. It’s the Fraser influence, I guess.

“Sounds wonderful,” she says. “Thank you.”

She sheds her layers—snow-covered stuff in the mudroom, everything else on the coatrack inside the door, just how Fraser likes it—and I make us tea, and we sit on the couch and talk for a bit. Mostly about weather, because that’s just what people do up here.

Eventually she tells me about how she’s from Alaska. Says she lived in Mexico for a while but now she’s back here because she misses the cold.

“That’s nuts,” I tell her. “You’re nuts. Nobody moves here for the weather.”

She smiles, big and bright. “What’d you move here for?”

I don’t bother asking how she knows I’m not a local. It’s pretty obvious to anybody with eyes. Or ears.

“My partner’s from here,” I tell her. “It was either me moving up here, or him staying down in Chicago with me.”

I pause then, waiting for her face to do the thing people’s faces usually do when I mention Fraser that way. Some kind of look, like really fast blinking or maybe a little frown, as they process the pronoun I just used—usually followed by a thoughtful look as they try and figure out if _partner_ means, you know, work partner or dick-up-the-ass partner.

Not to be crude or anything.

This chick Leigh, though, her face doesn’t do any of that stuff. She just nods like it’s no biggie, which probably means either she’s from around here and knows about us, or she’s got enough queer folks in her life that people like me don’t faze her. Either way: cool.

“So, you had the where-should-we-live conversation, and he won?” she asks.

I snort. “Not even close. This place? Town of a couple hundred people? This is a compromise. If he’d really won, we’d be living about a hundred miles from the nearest neighbor. Sorry, _kilometers._ Or we’d be on an actual iceberg or something.”

“Hm,” she says with a smile.

“Actually,” I say, craning my neck to check the clock, “he oughta be home any minute now.”

So we drink our tea and we talk some more and we wait, Leigh and me—and the whole time I can’t help thinking, man, look at me, acting all neighborly. Inviting strangers in and putting the kettle on and talking about the cold and actually being interested in what I’m saying. I’m going native. Fraser’d be so proud.

-

I hear Dief a few minutes before they get to the door, which means I’ve got time to put myself in the mudroom and watch Fraser turn from a dot into an action figure into a man as he gets closer. He reaches for the door, but I get there first, so when it opens and the cold rushes in, I get this little moment of Surprised Face.

I like that face.

Granted, I like most of his faces. So.

“Ray,” he says, and gives me a peck on the lips. Then he moves to shut the door—except Dief’s still outside. Surprised Face turns into Annoyed Face (which is still a face I like, as long as it’s not aimed at me), and his voice goes sharp. “Diefenbaker! Inside.”

Dief growls. Then barks, real sharp, just once.

Fraser turns back to me, two worried creases between his eyebrows. “Do we have company?”

“Woman named Leigh,” I say. “She’s right inside. I made tea and everything. Uh, can we maybe shut the door? I’m not really in the mood to freeze my sack off.”

“Diefenbaker!” Fraser shouts—but the damn wolf is gone. Fraser doesn’t go after him, though, which is lucky, since the wind’s cutting right through my sweater and the T-shirt underneath. He just shakes his head and steps all the way inside, and I finally get to shut the damn door.

“He’ll be fine,” I say and, Christ, my teeth are chattering. “He’s probably just holed up in the lean-to.”

“Likely so.” Fraser shucks his coat quick as lightning, then pulls me toward him with strong arms, rubbing my back all vigorously, like I was right on the verge of frostbite or something. “Sorry about that. Are you all right?”

“Sure, I’m good,” I say, and pull back just far enough that I can get myself another kiss. A real one this time, with tongue and stuff. When that ends, I add, “And now I’m _real_ good.”

He opens his mouth like he’s gonna say something back, but whatever it is never makes it out. He frowns. Sniffs the air, like he does when he’s tracking something. The muscles in his neck go tight, like _visibly_ tight, and he murmurs, “No.”

Just that one word, but it’s enough to make my blood turn icy.

He shoves me out of the way and opens the inside door and goes into the living room, all without taking his boots off first, which he’s only ever done once before now, and that was a time when he came home _bleeding_ on account of being attacked by a frigging polar bear. So yeah, by now I know something’s wrong. My brain’s not working fast enough to know what it is, though, or even to guess.

But I’m right on Fraser’s heels, which means I see it. All of it. I see the moment he sees her. I see his body change from Off-Duty Fraser into Ready-To-Kill-Someone-If-Necessary Fraser. I see Leigh smile and wave at him, a taunting little waggle of her fingers.

I see a million years of memories crashing down on him as he stares at her and says, “You.”

“Me,” she replies.

“Who?” I say, but neither of them is listening to me. They’re locked in this weird-ass staring contest—Leigh nestled in the corner of the couch with her feet tucked underneath her and one of my _Star Wars_ mugs in her hands, Fraser standing there with his jaw set and his hands fisted at his sides and his chest rising and falling too fast—and I’m just kinda invisible. Which, I’m starting to think, is a pretty good thing to be.

“What,” he says in his prickliest, most _patient_ voice, “are you doing here?”

I come this close to jumping in and answering. Telling him what she told me about thinking she could make it home but getting blindsided by the storm. But I don’t, because that’s when it finally dawns on me that she lied. She didn’t end up here by accident.

She smiles. “Good to see you, too, Ben.”

Maybe it’s how she says his name. Maybe it’s how he flinches when he hears it. But with that one word, I’m realizing why her face looks familiar. I’ve seen her before, and it wasn’t around town. It was in one of the cases I read up on before I started being Vecchio. A long-ass series of reports that added up to a story about diamonds and identity theft and the bullet that’s still lodged in Fraser’s back. Clipped to it, a photocopied mugshot.

_Metcalf, Victoria L._

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I say. “Are you _kidding_ me?”

Yeah, this time they hear me. Fraser shoots me this look, this stay-quiet-for-your-own-good look, but Leigh—Victoria Leigh Metcalf—she just smiles.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” I say, pointing at the door.

She raises her eyebrows, all innocent. “In this storm?”

“Yes, in this storm,” says Fraser, and _whoa_ , okay, I was kinda expecting him to be Good Cop here. I was expecting to have to fight him on this.

Judging from the look on Metcalf’s face, she was expecting the same thing.

She stands up then, tall and willowy even in her bulky winter clothes, and she starts walking toward him, real casual. And Fraser—my solid and dependable partner Benton Fraser of the RCMP, thank you kindly—he takes a step _back._

I swear I almost have a heart attack, seeing that happen.

Metcalf laughs, soft and playful. “Hey, come on, Ben. It’s just me,” she says, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to punch her frigging lights out. You don’t fuck up someone’s life, then laugh at them for being scared of you. You just don’t _do_ that.

“I know it is,” he says, calm and controlled. “And you are going to leave.”

“Ben—”

“The storm is only going to get worse,” he continues. “It won’t be safe for my wolf outside, and he won’t come in unless you’re gone. So, please. Leave.”

Shit. That’s right. This is the bitch that shot Dief. No wonder he got all growly when he smelled her. Poor furball.

“Ben, just listen to me, will you?” There’s desperation in her eyes now, which for some reason makes me feel better. I guess because it means she knows we’ve got the upper hand here. “I’m just asking for one night. Nothing more than that. No favors. No help. I’ve got my own supplies, so you won’t even have to feed me. I just need somewhere to hide—”

“From who?” I ask.

She swallows. “There’s a man after me. He thinks I’m heading north. So I’m heading south tomorrow, toward Eagle Plains.”

“That’s nearly two hundred kilometers,” says Fraser, because of course he knows all this stuff right off the top of his head. But yeah, he’s right. We’re on the outskirts of Fort McPherson, Fraser and me, so the distance is just about what he said. Easy to reach in a few hours during the summer. Stupid to try in the winter.

She gives him a faint smile. “I didn’t say I’d _reach_ Eagle Plains tomorrow. But this storm’s only supposed to last the night, so it should be safe to set out again by mid-afternoon.”

He hesitates, and that’s when I know she has him. That’s when I know I gotta jump in.

“There’s plenty other places to stay,” I say. “Jack and Gina have a room in their place that they rent out sometimes, and, oh, Mrs. G has that place above her store over on—what’s that street?”

“Never mind that,” Fraser says softly. “I’d rather not inflict this… situation… on anyone we know.”

He’s still not looking at me. He’s still staring at Metcalf like she’s a ghost. Except, no. I know Fraser’s history with ghosts, and I’m willing to bet not a single one of them ever freaked him out this much.

Metcalf’s smile widens, showing a glint of white teeth. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Is that your logic, Ben?”

“It’s good advice,” he replies.

God, I wish I hadn’t said that thing about Jack and Gina’s spare room. I wish she’d stop calling him Ben. I wish I hadn’t heard her pounding on the front door in the first place. I wish shooting her wouldn’t get me locked up.

“Thank you,” she says, sounding so sincere that it makes my stomach twist. “I’ll pay you, if you like. What’s the going rate for a night’s stay in this town?”

“Two point two million,” I say. “And that’s American dollars, not Canadian.”

“Actually, Ray, I’d really rather not touch her money, if it’s all the same to you.” Fraser thumbs his eyebrow, then sighs quietly to himself. “Would you show Victoria the guest room? And the linen closet? I ought to get these boots off and clean the floor—goodness, I’m sorry about the mess—ah, and one of us should start supper.”

“I’ll take point on the food, Fraser,” I say, because no way do I want him fumbling around a stove with the state he’s in. Making food doesn’t relax him the way it does me. “It’s my turn anyway.”

“Your turn,” says Metcalf, who’s watching Fraser take off his boots. “That’s sweet. You’re like an old married couple.”

“Yeah, too bad that kinda thing ain’t legal here,” I snap.

She just laughs, and I hate her for it. I hate that she’s not surprised about me and Fraser being together. Probably because it means either she knew he had a queer side, which he didn’t tell much of _anyone_ before the two of us got serious—or she’s been keeping up with him enough to know his business.

Well, obviously she’s been keeping up. She found us here, didn’t she?

God. The sheer number of times I’ve wished this bitch dead. Every time Fraser bolts awake in the middle of the night and I know he dreamed about her again. Every time I catch him looking a little too long at a frigging candle. Every time I see that goddamned scar on his back….

“Ray,” says Fraser, thank god, before I can work myself up enough to say something real stupid. “The guest room, please.”

“Yeah, sure. You bet.”

His boots are off now, and as I lead Victoria fucking Metcalf into the guest room, I see Fraser darting into our bedroom. I’d bet my whole savings that he’s making sure the firearms are double, triple, quadruple locked away.

-

Dinner is spaghetti and meatballs—spaghetti because we stocked up on nonperishables for the winter, meatballs because I made a whole bunch last month and froze them. I used to cook fancier down in the States, mainly with Stella but a little bit with Fraser too, but since he eats like a five-year-old and fancy shit’s harder to come by up here anyway, I mostly don’t bother anymore.

We have spaghetti and meatballs a _lot_ , is what I’m saying.

Metcalf said before that she brought her own food, so I make three plates, set two on the table, and put the third on the floor for Dief. The wolf came back in a little while ago—too cold out even for him, I guess—and he’s been keeping a wary eye on Metcalf ever since. She’s barely even looked at him.

When me and Fraser sit down, he begins to say, all tentative, “Victoria, if you’d like to join—”

“No,” I say firmly.

Fraser, across the table from me, gives me his Worried Face. Metcalf, nestled on the couch with one of Fraser’s books in one hand and something that looks a lot like pemmican in the other, gives me a face that I can’t interpret at all.

But fuck them. Fuck both of them. I don’t want her at my table.

Finally, after waiting just long enough for it to be uncomfortable, Fraser goes, “As you wish, Ray.”

Damn _right_ , as I wish. I spear a meatball with my fork, stick it into my mouth, and damn well start chewing. I even make little “mmm” noises, so she knows exactly how much better my dinner is than hers.

But then something changes. Maybe it’s how Fraser keeps looking over at her, then looking at me to see if I noticed. Maybe it’s how I can feel her watching me. But yeah, after two meatballs and a couple forkfuls of noodles, I’m starting to think I decided wrong. Metcalf sitting next to me wouldn’t be the greatest, but this isn’t exactly the greatest either—plus now I feel like a petty little asshole who just, I dunno, built a tree fort and stuck a NO GIRLS ALLOWED sign on it so he could feel superior.

Not that I ever did that when I was a kid.

_Anyway._

Point is, I don’t feel superior. I just feel like a giant dickhead. So I scoot over a little, scowl over at Metcalf, and say, “Extra chairs are folded up behind the fridge. There’s more spaghetti in the pot. You can serve yourself, because I’m sure as shit not gonna do it for you.”

Metcalf’s brows shoot up, and her eyes flick over to Fraser, who gives her this tight little smile and goes, “You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like.”

She pauses just a second, then shrugs, gets up, and starts serving herself. Putting her treacherous little hands all over my pot, my ladle, my plate, my fork. My chair. She settles herself between Fraser and me, and her knee bumps mine under the table. I move my chair away so it can’t happen again.

She starts eating, and I hate her. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her. I hate how she looks like a normal human person instead of some mustache-twirling villain. I hate the tiny little chewing noises she makes. I hate how she tells me that my meatballs are as good as her mom’s. I hate watching Fraser watch her with that too-calm, too-stoic look on his face, because all I can think about is when he first told me what really went down with her, how he almost betrayed everything he was for her, how he said all that shit about her and about himself and about them, together—

_She was the only person I’d ever loved._

_Until I met you, of course._  
  
Of course.

That’s another thing I hate: sharing that space in Fraser’s heart. He loved her then. He loves me now. He never loved anybody else, or so he says. I hate that me and her have that, the most important thing in my whole stupid life, in common.

I need a fucking drink.

And apparently I’m not the only one, because when I get up and fish my half-full bottle of Maker’s Mark out from the back of the pantry, Fraser says, “One for me as well, Ray, if you don’t mind.”

It probably doesn’t need saying that Fraser only drinks once in a blue moon. Guess tonight is the bluest kind of moon there ever is.

“Sure thing,” I say.

“And me?” says Metcalf.

“Fuck no,” I tell her.

Then I think about that NO GIRLS ALLOWED sign, and I pour her a shot anyway.

-

We get a little drunk, Fraser and Metcalf and me, and _there’s_ a sentence I never thought would need saying. But yeah, that’s how it goes. We sip our whiskey, and we shoot another one, and we go for refill after refill until Metcalf starts laughing loudly at every stupid thing. Until Fraser’s polite façade gets chipped enough that I can glimpse all the complicated feelings underneath.

Until all the hate I’m feeling morphs into this weird combination of protectiveness and horniness, and all I want to do is drag Fraser into the bedroom, lock the door, and fuck him until all he’s got room for in that heart of his is me, me, me.

Because, thing is, he keeps _looking_ at Metcalf. Like… like _looking_ at her. Kinda like the way I used to look at Stella after the divorce, before I really got to know Fraser. It’s the look where you’re remembering the good stuff and trying to remind yourself about the bad stuff and also willing your hard-on to go away, all at the same time.

And Metcalf? She’s looking at him right back. All through cleaning up the kitchen. (I do the dishes. Fraser dries. Metcalf offers to put things away, but I don’t let her.) All through the most awkward game of Uno I’ve ever been talked into playing. (I think Fraser suggested it just so he could have something to do with his hands.) All through the not talking about what happened between them last time. (The air was thick with it. Like not only was there this giant pink elephant in the room, but also someone had dressed it like a mime and told it to tap dance.) All through all of that, she’s just… looking.

Then, the phone rings. Metcalf goes still, and me and Fraser glance at each other. I’m having a hunch where I’m pretty sure the phone call’s about our guest, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

I put my hands up and shake my head. No way am I taking point on this one.

So he gets up and goes into the kitchen and answers on the third ring. I listen real close. So does Metcalf.

“Hello?” He pauses, and his eyes find mine. “Yes, this is he. Hello, Sergeant…. Yes sir, it is indeed quite the storm. Ought to pass by tomorrow, though, as I understand it.” A pause, then a little laugh that would sound totally real if I didn’t know him so well. “Oh yes, we’re just fine. And yourself?”

The small talk goes on for-fucking-ever. Always does up here, unless it’s an emergency. Metcalf rolls her eyes when Fraser gets to the part where he asks how Sergeant Burns’s wife and kids are doing. I fight the urge to do the same thing. No way am I agreeing with her, even on this.

Finally, they get down to business. Fraser’s back gets all stiff, like he’s in uniform and on the job, and he gets that little crease between his brows. Then he goes, “A fugitive? And you think he’ll be on the move in a storm like this?”

I catch the thing he just did with the pronouns. So does Metcalf. She smirks, so I don’t.

Then Fraser nods. “Seeking shelter—I see…. Ah! A woman? Do you have a description?” His eyes fix on Metcalf, then, and he starts nodding. “Mmhmm. Mmhmm. That tall, really? Mmhmm. And might you have a name?” His brow creases even more. “No name. I see. May I ask what she’s wanted for?”

A pause. Fraser stares and stares at her.

“I _see_.”

That’s a hell of a thing he’s got going on with his voice. All kinds of feelings, packed into a short little word like only Fraser can do.

Metcalf just sits there. Doesn’t even bother looking scared or anything, which I add to the list of things I hate about her.

“Well, I’ll certainly let you know if I see anything. But I’ll warn you, I’ve no intention of leaving the house until the storm clears.” Another almost-real laugh. “No, I don’t imagine many of us plan to go outside anytime soon. No. But thank you for the call. If she’s still in the area tomorrow, I can certainly begin searching then.”

And see, if I were Sergeant Burns, that would’ve been my first clue. Normally Fraser’d be out the door and on the fugitive’s trail five minutes ago, storm or no. But I guess Burns doesn’t know him as well as I do. I guess maybe nobody does.

Except fucking Metcalf, who smiles and says, as soon as he hangs up the phone, “You’re such a terrible liar, Ben. You always were.”

I bite the insides of my cheeks, and remind myself that I’m not legally allowed to stab her.

Fraser, he just stays over there by the phone, frowning at her. “And you, Victoria. You’re still a killer.”

“No, I’m not! I didn’t kill anyone. I swear to you, I haven’t killed anyone since…” She swallows hard, putting her hands up like I just did a few minutes ago, and I hate her for that too. “Not since Jolly.”

Another name from that case file. “Yeah,” I say, “that’s the guy you tried to frame Fraser for, ain’t it.”

“Yes,” she says, pinning me with this real defiant look. The kind of look you see on people who’ve done time. “I tried to pin it on Ben. It was a long time ago, and I was desperate, and I’m sorry. All right? I’m sorry.”

I kinda want to throttle her for using his first name like that—like she’s trying to prove something to me—but I sit right where I am. “Don’t apologize to me,” I tell her. “Apologize to the guy you screwed over. Apologize to the guy who got himself _shot_ for you.”

She turns to him. “Ben, I—”

“Please don’t,” he says, and licks his lips. Takes a deep breath that fills his whole chest, and lets it out. “Victoria, my commanding officer informs me that you’ve already met Jack and Gina Smith, who I believe Ray mentioned earlier.”

I shoot right up out of my seat. “She _killed_ one of them? Fraser, we gotta—”

“Nobody’s been killed,” says Fraser, all calm.

Okay, I’m confused.

So’s Metcalf, apparently, because she gestures all frantic at the phone behind Fraser. “But… you just said… your sergeant told you I killed someone. Didn’t he?”

“Oh, goodness, no,” says Fraser, crossing his arms over his chest. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Then—then why’d you say—”

“You said I’ve always been a terrible liar.” Fraser shrugs. “I thought we were reminiscing about the old days. My mistake.”

Jeeeeeesus. Fraser can be such an asshole sometimes, and I love him so fucking much for it. Seriously, it takes everything I got not to run over there and pin him to the wall and kiss the shit out of him. That’s how priceless the look on Metcalf’s face is.

“God. Ben.” She shakes her head. “Fine. I guess I deserved that.”

“Damn right you do,” I say. “Fraser? What happened to Jack and Gina?”

Fraser tilts a smile at me. “She seems to have rented their spare room last night. And left this morning without paying.”

Metcalf rolls her eyes. “And that’s worth rallying the troops for? In a storm like this? Fine. I’ll go back and pay them tomorrow, if you’re so worried.”

I shoot Fraser a look. His lips tighten, just slightly. We both know there’s no way she’s gonna pay.

Well, hey. At least it’s better than anyone being dead.

“It’s late,” Fraser says then. “Ray, we ought to get some sleep.”

He tells her she can knock on our door if she needs anything. Tells her, also, that she can take whatever she wants from the fridge. She nods at everything he says, and I spend the whole time glaring at her, quiet, thinking.

And, okay, here’s what I’m thinking. I’m thinking first she lied to me about getting caught in the storm on her way home. I’m thinking then she lied to Fraser about being on the run from somebody. She’s up here to see Fraser, and that’s the beginning and the end of it. I know it, and I’m thinking Fraser knows it too, maybe even knew it before the phone call. And obviously she knows it.

But nobody’s saying it.

“You’re gone tomorrow,” I tell her, as mean as I can, before I follow Fraser into our bedroom. “Soon as the snow stops, you’re gone and you’re not coming back. Not ever. You got that?”

She nods, real solemn. “Got it.” Her eyes flick back to Fraser then, standing behind me all strong and silent, and she shuts the guest room door behind her.

-

“You were quiet tonight, Ray,” says Fraser, once we’re behind closed doors. The walls are thin between these rooms, so he’s whispering.

I shrug. “Yeah, well. Heh. It was either that or commit murder. This particular issue, Fraser, I don’t got much room for anything in between.”

“Understood,” he says softly, and climbs into bed.

It takes me another minute, but eventually I get it. He’s doing the same thing as me. Being quiet because the alternative would suck way more. Me, it’s quiet or murder. Him, it’s quiet or who even _knows_ what. 

He’s just lying there, stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, and fortheloveofgod I thought we were over this, him and me. That thing where he feels all the feelings in the universe and doesn’t tell me about any of them. I thought we got over that thing years ago.

I put myself in that bed right next to him, right in my usual spot. “Fraser.”

“Mm,” he says, not moving.

“Hey, buddy, talk to me.” I lean over and kiss his bare shoulder. 

But Fraser? Fraser _flinches_. Flinches right away from me, turns over on his side facing the other way, and curls in on himself.

“Whoa,” I say. “Hey.”

There’s nothing from him, and nothing, and nothing, and then this tiny pathetic whisper: “Not now, all right?”

And my heart just melts for him. Melts right out of my frigging chest, because I’m such an idiot, I didn’t get it till now. There I was, drinking whiskey and playing Uno and shooting the shit and avoiding the tap-dancing mime elephant in the room because that’s what I figured Fraser wanted me to do—and all that time, yeah, I knew he was keeping something bottled up behind that too-cool façade. But I figured it was anger. And sure, maybe some of it _is_ anger, but…

But I guess I didn’t realize how much hurt’s in there, too.

He’s hurting. Fraser’s hurting, and it’s so, so bad. And I got no idea what to do about it.

His arm rises and falls against his side as he breathes in and out, in and out, these really even breaths.

“Uh,” I say. “Hey. I got a secret whiskey stash under the bathroom sink.”

“I know,” he says dully.

Oh. Should’ve figured that, I guess. “Well, you want some? Seems like you could use it.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Sure.”

So I run and get it, this little tiny bottle of Jack, and I hand it over to him. He sits up just enough that he won’t choke, and we pass the thing back and forth till it’s gone, till I’m feeling a little tipsy, till I can feel Fraser relaxing even though he still won’t touch me.

When the bottle’s empty, he says, “What about your other secret bottle? The one in your sock drawer?”

“Uhhhh, drank the last of that a few days ago.”

“Oh.”

“You were out chasing that guy, whatsisname. Two whole days. I got lonely. And bored. So.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says, and curls onto his side again.

I let another little while pass before I say, “Hey, listen. I get that you don’t wanna talk. And that’s… that’s greatness, right, whatever, you do what you gotta do here. But once she leaves? Once that bitch leaves, you better talk to me. You got that?”

He draws in a breath and holds it there, and I can practically _feel_ him wondering whether to tell me to, you know, not call her the B-word. But after a second he breathes out. “It’s only that I… I forget, sometimes, that she’s just a human being. Just a person.”

Huh. “As opposed to what?”

There’s a little rustling of blankets, but he still doesn’t turn back around. “As opposed to… a mythical being, I suppose. A character. A piece of the puzzle that actually _fits,_ instead of having edges too jagged and wrong-shaped corners—”

“Fraser, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Another deep breath, drawn in and let out. He still, still won’t look at me.

“Once upon a time,” he says, in the fluid, melodic voice he uses to tell his stories, “there lived a siren, and there lived an officer of the law. She drew him into her thrall, and because men are powerless against such creatures, he could not hope to resist her. He went where she told him to go. He did what she told him to do. He became a person unlike himself—and if not for the quick thinking of his dearest friend, he might even today still be this different person, for no man is immune to the charms of the siren. Even an officer of the law.” He pauses. “Do you see?”

“Uh. No…?”

“That,” he says, all quiet and whispery again, “is the version of the story in which I take none of the blame. But it only works if she’s a siren. A succubus. A spellcaster of some sort. If she’s human, the whole story changes. It doesn’t make sense anymore.”

Ahhhh, now I get it. That’s how he got over the Metcalf thing back when it happened. That’s how he forgave himself for his part in it. By changing the story—putting all the blame on her. And because Fraser’s Fraser, of course he’s gotta add some weird magic to the mix, too.

Still, there’s one thing in particular that grabs my interest. “What do you mean, it doesn’t make sense?”

“My part in it,” he says softly. “The things I did for her. The moment I decided to run after the train. Why would I ever do that? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Sure it does,” I say, soft as I can. “Because she’s not the only one who’s not a mythical whatever. You’re human, too.”

He breathes in and out, in and out, and doesn’t answer me. For a minute I think he fell asleep—but then he says, in a voice even tinier than before, “Ray?”

“Yeah, Fraser.”

“Why don’t you ever call me Ben? Or even Benton?”

My nails dig into my palms. I’ll kill her. I’ll _kill_ her.

“Dunno, buddy. Guess I just never got into the habit.”

“Hm.”

“Why? You want me to?”

“I…”

“What?”

“I’ve… had too much to drink, I think. Never mind. Go to sleep, Ray.”

“Right. Yeah, sure.”

I bite my lip as hard as I can so I don’t accidentally say anything else. Anything stupid.

But then comes his voice again. “Ray?”

“Yeah, Fraser.”

“I love you. You know that, right?”

“Jesus. Yeah. Course I know that.”

“Good. All right, good.”

“I love you too, Fraser.”

-

By the time I fall asleep, I’m about two hundred percent sure I’m gonna get woken up in the middle of the night because Fraser had some dream. Doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, it’s always, _always_ about her. Metcalf. And with her right there in the next room, well, it just stands to reason, right?

But nope. When I wake up in the middle of the night, it’s not because Fraser jerked awake or made a noise or whatever. It’s because of this tapping sound on the wall. At first I don’t think it’s anything weird—but then Fraser gets up. He’s real stealthy about it, too, which means I’m all the way awake in no time flat. Stealthy in this house means he’s doing something he feels like he shouldn’t, and tonight that means I know exactly where he’s going.

The walls are thin. I know it and Fraser knows it, but I guess Metcalf doesn’t, which means I can hear it clear as day when she goes, “Hello, Ben.”

His answer isn’t clear. So obviously I get out of bed and go closer to the wall so I can hear better.

She laughs, low in her throat, and says, “Your new Ray doesn’t like me.”

This time I can hear Fraser nice and clear: “He knows about my history with you, Victoria. As such, he can hardly be blamed for his protective behavior.”

“Protective, sure,” she says. “It’s a good quality to have in a friend. Especially one you live with.”

“Ray isn’t just a friend that I live with.” Fraser’s voice is kind of sloshy, actually. Like maybe the whiskey hasn’t totally worn off yet. “There’s no need to be delicate.”

“Fine, then, it’s a good quality to have in the man you’re fucking.”

“Victoria…”

“Or is _he_ fucking _you_?”

“That’s incredibly inappropriate,” says Fraser.

“And none of your goddamn business,” I add under my breath, so low they won’t be able to hear me.

Metcalf just laughs again. “Come on, Ben, lighten up—”

“Lighten up? Really?” Oh, he doesn’t sound tired now. Heh. Here we go. “You try to frame me for murder and my partner for theft, you disappear for over a decade, you show up at my door when the weather’s exactly bad enough that you know I won’t force you out—and now you’d like me to _lighten up_?”

“I know you hate me,” she says. “I’ve known that ever since I left. I had my ten years of hating you, then you had your ten years of hating me. Now we’re even. Right?”

“That’s not how it works.”

“No? Then tell me.”

The silence that follows is heavy, and when he answers her, Fraser’s voice is even heavier. “I don’t hate you. I… I stopped hating you a long time ago. I had to. It was taking up too much space in my head.”

Oh Christ, yeah, the whiskey definitely hasn’t worn off yet. Fraser never talks about himself like this, even to me. Only times he does are when he’s worn so thin that he can’t help himself, or when he’s had a few drinks.

“I’m glad,” she replies. “Ben—”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, and I can hear the floor creak. What the fuck is she trying to do?

What the fuck is he gonna _let_ her do?

“Hey,” she says. “It’s okay. I promise I’m not going to—I just want to see—”

Fraser sucks in a breath, so loud I can hear it through the damn wall. “Vic—Victoria, please…”

“That looks bad. And it’s still in there?”

The bullet. She’s talking about Vecchio’s bullet.

“How did you—”

“I know a hacker or two,” she says, sounding a little smug. “I called in a favor.”

“You hacked into my medical records?”

“I had to make sure you were alive.”

Then it’s just _quiet_. No talking, no weird breathing, no movement even. My insides start wanting to commit mutiny. I can’t stay here. I have to see what’s going on.

So I head for the door. I take a deep breath, and I turn the corner, and I look.

She’s got a lantern lit—one of those camp lanterns that he keeps in here—and it’s behind them, so from my spot in the doorway, I can only see them in silhouette. They’re not kissing, which is kinda what I was afraid of. No, what they’re doing is… well, he’s standing there, right in the middle of the floor. Chest as bare as mine, feet as bare as mine. PJ pants hanging low on his hips. She’s standing behind him in nothing but panties and a loose T-shirt, and she’s got her hands on his lower back. Right around where that bullet still is. It looks like she’s massaging him or something. It looks like he’s kinda into it, too, seeing as how he’s all relaxed and his head’s hanging forward a little—

Then she sees me. Her head turns, and I still can’t see her eyes, but I can feel her looking at me. She looks, and she looks, and she leans over, just a little, and presses a long kiss to the back of his neck.

Aaaand I’m right back to wanting to murder her. Or at least shoot her in the spine. Or at least make her _stop_. So why the fuck can’t I do anything but stand here?

She moves around him then, till they’re front to front. Her hand creeps across his shoulder and cups the back of his neck. She pulls him forward, and their lips brush, and—

And he jerks back. “No.”

“Come on. You know you want to. You miss me. Just like I miss you.”

“But Ray—”

“Ray doesn’t mind,” says Metcalf, and turns to look at me again. “Do you, Ray?”

I still can’t move. Now, though, I’m starting to figure out why. It’s the way she’s moving in the dark. The way she’s using her voice. I remember how I thought she was hot when she first unbundled herself just inside the door. This is that, all over again—except in the middle of the night. With a shirtless half-drunk Fraser in silhouette between us. And I still got plenty of whiskey in me, too.

Don’t get me wrong, I still want to murder her. It’s just, there’s part of me now that wants to do something else to her, too.

“Get your hands off him,” I say, but it’s too weak and I waited too long before saying it and now I sound like an idiot.

I go into the room instead. She’s still touching him. And he, well, he hasn’t moved. He’s not even looking up at me, now that I’m close enough to see most of his face. He’s just frozen. But breathing awfully hard.

Another step closer, and now I can see he’s got his eyes closed. Like he’s, I dunno—like he’s trying to teleport himself out of here. Or like if he thinks it hard enough, this’ll all be a dream and he’ll wake up and she’ll be gone.

I shove her out of the way—she stumbles a little, and I seriously don’t care—and I put my arms around him press myself against his front. He doesn’t flinch this time. Just kinda breathes into me. I rub his back till I feel the muscles relaxing, till I can feel him hugging me back.

“Come back to bed,” I say. “We’ll forget this ever happened.”

He shakes his head—I can feel his hair brushing back and forth against my cheek. And I’m about to ask what kind of no that is (no, he doesn’t want to forget? no, he doesn’t want to come to bed?), when he shifts his hips. Just the tiniest bit. Just enough for me to feel that he’s really, really hard inside those jammies of his.

He shifts his head too, and says into my ear, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I say, still holding him tight. “You’re fine. I got you.”

“It’s not—it’s—mmm, um…” His breath speeds up, and he’s making these little whimpering noises into my ear, and what the hell? I’m not doing anything except holding him.

Then I hear her kissing him. Kissing the back of his neck, probably, like she was doing before. His chest arches against me, and he moans, and god, yeah, I know exactly what makes him do that: Fingernails down his back, not hard enough to cut but definitely hard enough to scrape. I hate that she knows what he likes. And I hate how fucking turned on he is.

I hate, hate, _hate_ that I’m getting a little turned on over here, too.

I think about all the times he’s woken up with a stiffie after dreaming about her. I think about what he said just before he fell asleep—about forgetting that Metcalf was just a human being.

I think about all that stuff, and then I think, _Fuck it._

I tilt my head up, and I kiss the shit out of him—and when he kisses me back, he’s going at it harder than he has in months. Skipping all the tender lovey-dovey stuff and going right for the wet, sloppy, open-mouthed, gotta-have-you-right-now type kisses. His tongue tastes every inch of my mouth that it can reach, and he’s moaning and moaning and I can’t even see what she’s doing back there, but I don’t care, because Fraser’s tongue and Fraser’s body and Fraser’s fingers digging into my back all add up to my blood rushing south, and—

—and this does not add up. Some still-sober, not-middle-of-the-night part of my brain knows this! It really does! This isn’t a thing that’s sense-making for me to do, letting Metcalf into my home, letting her hands roam over Fraser, _not_ pulling him back into the sanctuary of our own bedroom where it’s just the two of us, _not_ telling her to stop. All that shit doesn’t make any more sense than Fraser running after that train ten years ago.

But there’s one thing here that does make sense, and it’s the need, the desperate need, in the sounds Fraser’s making. He needs this. He needs _her_. He needs to be with her, he needs to let himself—what the fuck was the phrase he used?—let himself _into her thrall_ , and then he needs to walk away and let her go, just to prove that he can.

And maybe, just maybe, he needs me here too. As a support system, or as a witness, or as whatever. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I’m gonna let him take whatever he wants tonight, and I’m sure as shit not letting him do it alone.

Metcalf’s doing whatever she’s doing to Fraser’s back—lips, fingernails, whatever—and I fist my hand in his hair, pulling his head back enough that we can see each other. His pupils are huge in the dim lantern light, and his lips are parted, glistening. He swipes his tongue over the bottom one, watching me keenly, maybe waiting for me to put an end to all this. Definitely hoping I won’t. I know that look of his. I know it real, real well.

“I got you,” I say to him again, real quiet, and I bend to kiss his throat. He tilts his head back to give me more room, more skin, and kissing turns to sucking. Sucking _hard_. I want to mark him tonight. I want him to feel me reminding him that he’s mine, not hers. I suck his throat, and I bite, nice and soft, and he groans and presses his hard-on against my hip, and yes, this is good.

I mark his throat, and his shoulder, and I move down to his chest. I swipe a tongue over one nipple, then the other, and he grabs my hair and holds me in place, so I bite him there, too, rolling his hardened flesh between my teeth just how he likes it.

Another mark at the bottom of his ribcage. Another on his belly. Another on his hipbone. I get on my knees then, cushioned a little by the thick rug that covers most of the floor, and when I look up, he’s watching me.

So’s Metcalf. She’s peering around his side, with her hand splayed over his chest, right on one of the marks I just made, and she’s looking. Waiting.

I pull his PJ pants down, just enough that his cock springs free—and he moans again with the motion of it, or the feeling of air, or whatever it is. He’s already leaking, and I’m really tempted to just go for it—to swallow him right here, right now, to make him come in five seconds flat, because he’s seriously _that close_. I can tell.

But this isn’t that kind of night. Not with her here. So I don’t touch him yet. I press my palms against the sensitive skin on either side of his cock, framing it so my thumbs are underneath, brushing against his balls. I brush them, and I tickle them with my nails, and I give him a little pressure here and there, and ohhhhh, the _sounds_ he’s making.

The sounds _Metcalf_ is making.

I keep going, and I keep going, and when I finally reach my tongue out to take one tiny little swipe at the exposed head of his cock, his whole body convulses with the sensation.

“Can I taste?” asks Metcalf from above me.

“No.” I lick him again. I kiss him, sucking so, so gently at his darkened, swollen head. Noises, noises, more of those gorgeous wanton Fraser-noises—

Then there’s a hand in my hair, pulling me off his cock. Twisting my head around to face—yeah, that’s Metcalf, and she’s on her knees too now, and she’s forcing my head toward hers, and she’s kissing me. Shoving her tongue past my teeth, biting my bottom lip, taking total control of my mouth, not letting her grip on my hair falter, even for a second.

“You either want me to be part of this,” she says, low and husky, when she finally lets me go, “or you don’t. None of this in-between bullshit. Got it?”

My cock is throbbing. It’s been a long damn time since anybody pushed me around like this, and fuck, _fuck,_ it’s hot. So hot that it takes me a few seconds longer to realize that no, this isn’t how it’s gonna go.

“Fuck that,” I say. “This is my house. This is _my_ partner. You either play by my rules, or you don’t play at all.”

Fraser’s standing over us, panting, panting, and Metcalf smiles at me and wraps one thin-fingered hand around his cock. Strokes her thumb over his slit. Keeps her eyes locked on mine the whole time, and I reach out to pull her back—

But when she bends down to lick him, it’s Fraser who steps away, out of her reach. He’s shaking, trembling from head to foot with the effort of keeping his head on right, but he says, loud and clear, “No.”

Metcalf looks up at him, real surprised. Then her face grows sly. “No? Why, because Ray said so?”

Fraser doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

Metcalf nods. “Okay, well, that answers _that_ question. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Uh-huh, yeah, now she thinks she knows how we work, Fraser and me. She thinks I give the orders and Fraser follows them, and that’s just how it is all the time. It’s not, though. Sometimes I top Fraser, and sometimes Fraser tops me, and sometimes there’s no top and bottom and we just love each other, long and slow.

But if she wants to think there’s only one way we do things, then let her. I don’t fucking care.

“Then what?” she asks me. “How does this work? Do I have to _earn_ him? Is that what you have in mind?”

It isn’t, but now that she’s given me the idea….

“You couldn’t even _begin_ to earn him,” I tell her. “You don’t deserve him. You never will.”

And I take her by the shoulders, shove my mouth against hers, and this time as we kiss, it’s _me_ showing her how I want it. My hand in her hair, holding her head in place. My tongue forcing its way into her mouth, my teeth scraping and biting wherever they damn well feel like it.

But then she catches my free hand in hers, and she forces it down, down, till my fingers are pressing between her legs. She rubs them against her wet panties, and—and I think about pulling away. But I don’t. I bite her bottom lip, nice and hard, and I let her rub herself with my hand.

“You wanna fuck me, Kowalski?” she asks, real low, real sultry, when she finally manages to escape the kiss. “That what you want? ’Cause we can make that happen.”

I sneak my fingers past the elastic of her soaking panties, and I feel her for real: slick, wet folds of skin… a little nub that makes her shiver when I touch it… a dip that lets my fingers inside. She groans and tightens herself around me, and I say, “You mean like that?”

That’s when I feel it: a brush of lips on my shoulder. Followed by a hand on my back, and then another on my waist, moving down and over and down and over, dipping between my ass cheeks just the littlest bit.

Fraser’s on his knees behind me, bracketing my legs with his, radiating heat as he presses his body against me, rubs first his fingers and then his cock against my ass. And me, I plunge my own two fingers as far into Metcalf as they’ll go.

She moans and rocks against me. He bites my shoulder, and I say “ _Yes, yes_ ,” into Metcalf’s mouth. Yes, mark me. Yes, I’m yours. Yes, we’re letting her in, but we still belong only to each other.

He bites my neck after that, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from thrusting my ass back against him and demanding that he fuck me right here, right now.

I find Metcalf’s clit with my thumb. I rub my nail against her. I figure she can tell me if it’s too much—but she bucks against me and throws her head back and her chest is _heaving_ and so I press harder.

But then Fraser reaches around me and into my pants. Finds my cock, takes it into his firm grip, starts _stroking_ , and I’m… lost. My fingers lose their purpose, and I pull away from Metcalf, pressing myself back against Fraser, rubbing ass against his cock as he rubs his hand over mine.

He kisses the back of my head.

Metcalf bends and kisses my throat.

But no, I don’t want her lips there. Sex is one thing—I can do the sex thing with her. I can do it because Fraser wants it. But this, this gentle kissing thing, this is skirting awfully close to real intimacy, and I don’t want that with anybody but Fraser. Definitely not with her.

“Get off,” I tell her—and to her credit, she does exactly that. She sits back on her heels, and she watches.

She watches as Fraser pulls my cock out of my jammies, exposing me to her for the first time since we started all this shit. She watches as he strokes the length of me, watches as he whispers “Harder?” in my ear, watches as I shake my head and go “Not yet,” watches as he kisses my hair and keeps on stroking me.

I have this really dumb moment, somewhere in there, where I remember how I’m not as big as Fraser is and I’m just sure, I’m totally completely sure, that she’s judging me for it. But I realize pretty quick that that’s stupid—and besides, Metcalf isn’t judging anybody for anything right here. In fact, the look on her face pretty much says she wants to eat both of us alive.

She sees me watching her, and makes a show of pulling her T-shirt off over her head: arching forward so her tits thrust out at me, letting the fabric pull her hair away from her face before she tosses it to the side. And, okay, those are some nice tits. Full and round, dark nipples hardened and, and _big_. I kinda almost forgot how much bigger girl nipples could be.

“Go on, Ray,” says Fraser, squeezing me just a little. “Let me watch.”

And, Jesus, if _that_ isn’t the hottest three words anyone’s ever said to me.

I reach out and pinch one of her nipples between my fingers, and she sighs into my touch. I squeeze. I bend over and lick, and her skin is so soft, so smooth, and she makes this _noise_ , and shit, shit, shit, it’s so good. I lick again, and I kiss, and she tastes so good, and she arches up and I push her down. Down, down, letting her rearrange her legs so she can lie on the rug, and I keep on kissing her tit, licking, sucking, seeing what new noises I can draw out of her. She reaches up to touch the one I haven’t gotten to yet, but I bat her hand away.

“Not till I say you can,” I tell her.

“Ha!” she says, but obeys. And me, I get back to work. Kissing her all over, wetting her nipple with my tongue, blowing it gently try. I twist with my fingers, I use my teeth, and then I hear her go “Oh, fuck, _oh_ ,” and that’s when I see Fraser positioning himself between her legs, lifting her hips up, and getting to work with that magical fucking tongue of his.

Her tits jiggle as her body responds to him, and her eyes are squeezed shut, but her mouth is open and panting and—and yeah, I decide, she can have a taste. Not of Fraser, though. Not yet.

I stand and strip my jammies off, and then kneel again, real quick, this time straddling her chest. I hook my hands under her shoulders, forcing her to sit up a little, and her eyes fly open just in time to see my cock brushing at her lips.

“Yeah?” I say.

Her tongue darts out and licks me, and she grins. “Yeah,” she says, and wraps her lips around my cock. It’s just the head, but she’s sucking and sucking like there’s no frigging tomorrow, _moaning_ against my skin as Fraser works his magic between her legs, and soon the moans come sharper and shorter, and she lets her head fall back as she cries, “Oh fuck oh fuck oh _fuck_!”

I wait till she stops swearing and her breath events out again, and I thrust my hips forward, nudging her chin with my cock. “What, you think you’re _done_?” I ask.

“Ooh, right,” she says snidely. “Forgot you’re the one in charge here.”

But before I can answer, she takes me in her mouth again, working me even harder than before. Lips sucking, tongue swirling, swallowing as much of me as she can manage—and then, way sooner than I want, I’m shaking with the effort of not coming. I’m right on the edge, and—no.

I stand up real quick. I want to come, I _need_ to, I need it so bad—but I don’t want it to be for her. I don’t want her mouth to be the thing that puts me over the edge.

“Fraser,” I say.

He looks up at me. “Yes, Ray?”

I reach out a hand to pull him up, then kiss him, long and dirty and slow. “You want me to fuck you?” I whisper into his ear. He hesitates—I can feel him considering Metcalf—but he nods. “Good. Go get the lube. And lose the clothes.”

“Yes, Ray,” he replies, his voice dark with want. One more kiss, and off he goes.

I don’t help Metcalf to her feet, but she gets up anyway. “That the plan? You fuck him while he fucks me?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Yes to the first one, no to the second. That’s a line I’m not crossing.”

“He wants to,” she says, low and teasing as she traces one finger right down the center of my chest. “You know he wants to.”

“Not as much as he wants to do what I tell him,” I say. “My house, my rules. Play by ’em or get the fuck out.”

She considers this for a second, tilting her head to the side. “Then what?”

“I fuck him, and you do whatever you want. Use your mouth on him. Make him feel good. Get him off.” I take her face between my hands, so she can’t look away. “And then, tomorrow, you leave our house, and you never come back. You don’t contact him. You don’t contact me. You don’t fucking _think_ about either of us ever again. Do you understand me?”

She looks at me for a second, then she looks behind me. “Is that what you want, Ben?”

I turn around; he’s standing there in the doorway, outlined softly in the lantern light. Fully naked now, he lingers there with the bottle of lube in his hand and his cock jutting out, a vision in flesh, just like he always is.

“Yes, it is,” he says.

She crosses the floor and kisses him, and I watch the lantern light play over the slope of her spine, the curve of her ass, the movement of her calves as she stands on her toes to reach him better. She takes the bottle from him.

Metcalf takes my hand and leads me to the bed, sitting me down on the edge almost like a ritual. She kneels between my legs and takes my cock in her mouth, sucking just a little before letting me go again. She opens the bottle, squirts into her hand, and slicks me up. Then she steps back and looks at Fraser.

“Show me,” she tells him.

He comes over to me and—and normally, this isn’t how we do it. When I fuck Fraser, I usually have him lying on the bed. Face down if I want it quick and dirty, face up if I want it steamy and slow. But she’s right; if she wants in on the action, this is the best way to do it. With him turning around, his back to my front, and sitting down on me, using his hand to guide my cock into his ass, slow, slow, slow.

He groans with the sensation, and I can feel his legs trembling as he tries not to give me all his weight at once. But I can take it, and I squeeze one arm around his chest to tell him so. Me inside of him, his weight holding me down. Yeah. God, god, god, yeah.

He lowers himself until I’m buried to the hilt inside him, and I want to thrust—I want to pound him—but I’m trapped here, and I can’t see shit except Fraser’s back against my face, which is a whole new kind of hot. I let myself collapse back across the bed, lying flat so he has more room to move.

“Now can I taste him?” asks Metcalf, somewhere above, and it takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me, not him.

“Yeah,” I say, high and breathy as he starts _moving_ on me. “Nngh, god, Fraser, yeah… yeah.”

I can’t see what she’s doing, but suddenly I feel her. Her mouth, her lips, her tongue, touching my balls and the root of my cock, lingering at the divide between his skin and mine. Moving down again, then up, up—and “God, god, god,” he pants, and bucks on top of me, his ass squeezing tighter and tighter around my cock as she… does whatever she’s doing.

I imagine it. I imagine her sucking him, kissing him, worshiping him with her mouth and her fingers, teasing and touching and loving him with everything she’s got. I imagine all that, and I’m glad I can’t see it.

She coaxes a rhythm out of him; I can feel him rocking back and forth on me as he thrusts into her mouth. I move to match them, syncing my rhythm to theirs, and soon I feel him tighten. I hear him go, “Oh, Ray, Ray, oh, _Ray_ ,” like he always does when he’s about to come.

I reach down and hold his hips in my hand, squeezing him, silently letting him know I’m still here. He tightens around me as he cries out, his convulsions sending shock waves through my whole body, and I’m close, I’m close—

Is she swallowing? Does she still have her mouth on him? I don’t _care_. I don’t care. God, I’m about to—any second—

“Get up,” I tell him, and he does, with shaky legs. My cock barely even bobs as it slides out of him, that’s how fucking hard I am. As soon as I’m free, I take him by the shoulders and press him onto the bed. Face down. On his knees. Ass in the air. Ready for me to claim him as my own.

“Here,” says Metcalf, who’s ready with the lube. I take it and slick myself up again, fast as I can, and I drive into Fraser’s body with one thrust.

Two more thrusts, and I’m seeing stars. I’m yelling something, probably, and my spine is trying to escape from my body, and my legs are turning into Jell-O, and my nose is full of the smell of sex. And then it’s over, and I’m shaking, and I collapse on top of him, my cheek against his sweaty back.

Fuck, he always smells so good after we do this.

He moves me off him after a second, and twists himself around so my back’s against his front. I murmur something about cleaning up, and he murmurs something about waiting till tomorrow, and I think _thank god_ and press back against him. He holds me tight.

“Ray,” he says, kissing my neck over and over and over. “My love. My Ray.”

Just before I fall asleep, I hear Metcalf tip-toeing out of the room. And yeah, that’s fine. Let her have our bed tonight, or the couch, or whatever. Let her do what she wants. I got everything I need, right here.

-

By the time I wake up, Fraser’s side of the bed is long cold, and I can hear Dief running around outside, probably yellowing as much snow as he can. It’s still dark out—well, obviously, it’s always dark this time of year—but it’s not snowing anymore. I wash the sleep out of my eyes and the stickiness off my skin, throw some pants on, and join Fraser in the kitchen. He’s got oatmeal and coffee waiting for me, both still hot.

I look around; we’re alone. “She gone?”

Fraser nods. “She left several hours ago. As soon as the snow stopped, just as she promised.”

I throw him a suspicious look. Metcalf keeping promises, huh?

“Well, perhaps not _as soon as_ the snow stopped,” he amends, dropping into his chair. I sit down in mine; Fraser’s already put the third chair away. “I insisted on giving her breakfast before she set out, and… and we talked a little bit.”

“Talked. Yeah, okay. About what?”

He scratches his ear. Then his eyebrow. “A lot of things. What happened ten years ago, and ten years before that.” He looks up at me, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “She apologized for injuring Diefenbaker. I never thought she would do that.”

I snort. “You forgive her?”

“For that?” says Fraser. “No. Absolutely not. For the rest, though…”

He shrugs. But it’s not one of those weird, awkward, I-don’t-wanna-talk-about-it shrugs that I’ve gotten every single other time he mentions Metcalf. It’s simpler than that. It’s I-don’t-know and nothing more.

“She steal anything before she left?” I ask him, putting my spoon down as I finish my food

He gives me a long look, then shakes his head no.

“She give you money to pay Jack and Gina for that room?”

He shakes his head again.

I snort. “Should’ve arrested her for it.”

“And what?” he says quietly. “Start the whole cycle all over again?”

Yeah, that’s a good point, I guess. I nod and take a long swig of my coffee, which is finally starting to cool down.

“The first time,” he continues, “she ended up with ten years in prison. The second time, I ended up with a bullet in my back. This time, nobody got hurt. Except…”

“Except what?” I ask.

His voice changes then, and his eyebrows draw together with concern. “Are _you_ all right, Ray?”

“Me?” I say. “I mean… sure. I mean, that was weird as fuck last night, and no mistake, but… but yeah. I’m good.”

Apparently that’s not enough to make Concerned Face go away, though, because he kinda squints at me. “You’re sure.”

 _Am_ I sure? How could I possibly _know_ if I’m sure? It’s morning, and I’m barely awake, and the thing we did just last night was, well, it was _just last night_. Definitely not enough time’s gone by for me to be sure about anything. Right now, actually, it still kinda feels like I dreamed the whole damn thing.

So I give him the truest answer that I can: “I’m as sure as I can be. I mean, it was something you needed—and you know me.” I grin. “I’m all about making sure you get what you need.”

His cheeks turn this cute pink color, and he looks down at his half-finished oatmeal. A few seconds pass before he talks again. “What you gave me last night, though. It was a lot, Ray. An awful lot. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Sure I did,” I tell him.

He frowns up at me, obviously waiting for me to say more. And this time, I already know what I want to tell him. I’ve known this part since the second I walked into that room last night.

“Thing is,” I say, clutching my coffee mug between my hands, “I don’t think she was human for me, either, before yesterday. The way you talked about her, the way you told me what she did, and what you did—you made her sound like some kind of…”

“Mythical being?” he offers.

“Monster,” I say. “But I think you’re right. I think she’s just a person—a seriously fucked-in-the-head kind of person, but really just a person. She screwed herself over robbing that bank, you screwed her over when you didn’t let her go, she screwed you over when she framed you, you screwed your _self_ over when you tried to run away with her. But now… look, she came to find you and didn’t even try to kill you or anything. That’s gotta mean something, right?”

He cocks his head to the side, like he does when he’s thinking hard.

“And you let her go,” I add. “That’s gotta mean something, too.”

“What does it mean?” he asks, kind of desperately.

“Well,” I say slowly. I can feel my brain shifting gears as the caffeine finally, _finally_ kicks in. “See, okay, remember that stuff you said last night? About, you know, taking all the shit that happened and turning it into a story so it’d make sense?”

He nods, all wary.

“Well, so, you turned her into a character. Then you did the same thing to yourself. Then last night came along, and you both got to be human again. You’re a crazy-hot guy who had a threesome with a chick you arrested, and she’s, you know, a bank robber and occasional murderer who stopped by to…” I frown. “Why _was_ she here, anyway? I mean, obviously to see you, but… that wasn’t the whole reason, right? Couldn’t have been.”

“I asked her this morning,” says Fraser. “She wouldn’t tell me.”

“Shocker,” I mutter.

Fraser gives a little huff of laughter, but doesn’t say anything.

I take another sip of coffee and go on: “Anyway, my point is, maybe that was the end of you thinking of her like some weird siren-goddess-thing. So now you can start getting over her for real.”

His lips part, and for a second I expect him to protest, to say that he already _is_ over her or something like that. But I guess he reconsiders, because all he says is, “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” I tell him with a smirk.

“Of course you are,” he says, voice skirting the line between sincerity and sarcasm.

“You looking for a fight, Fraser?” I joke.

But, weirdly, that’s when his face gets all serious again. “Actually… Um. I was wondering if I might—if I might ask…”

“If we can do threesomes more often?” I say. “With people who maybe aren’t career criminals? Because yeah, I’d be up for that.”

Fraser laughs. “No, I wasn’t—although I’d certainly be willing to _consider_ —ah, that is…” He clears his throat.

“Okay, yeah, conversation for another day,” I say. “What were you gonna ask me?”

He looks up again, meeting my eyes nervously. “If you might call me Ben.”

“Wait, whoa, why?” I say. “Just because she did?”

“No!” he says quickly. “Well… well, yes, but not in the sense that I think you mean. It’s because… because, you see… so few people have called me that, at least in my adult life. She tried, I think, to claim that part of me. But I’d like you to have it instead.”

Ahh, okay. It’s not to _remind_ him of her—it’s to _replace_ her. And yeah, fuck yeah, that’s a thing I can do.

“Ben,” I say.

He smiles.

“Ben, it’s your turn to do the dishes,” I add, just to try it out. He laughs. “Ben, your wolf keeps shedding all over my clothes. Ben, you got the best ass I ever seen.”

“Oh, hush,” he says, his eyes dancing with mirth.

“Ben,” I say, “will you take me to bed and fuck me till I’m blind?”

His eyes go dark, and a different kind of smile spreads across his gorgeous face. “Yes, Ray. I think I can manage that.”


End file.
